


Come On Skinny Love

by PurgatoryPalace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, archive warning maybe later on, mature just to be safe, may change warnings later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurgatoryPalace/pseuds/PurgatoryPalace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m a high—“<br/>“—functioning sociopath I know,” fake John rolls his eyes at him and Sherlock doesn’t know if he should be offended or not. John taps his own temple and points to Sherlock’s chest, right over his heart, “I know more about your mind—your heart than you think I do.”<br/>Sherlock now scoffs at John, “Impossible, you’re simply a reflection of my subconscious therefore you know no more than I.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come On Skinny Love

**Author's Note:**

> Mature just to be safe for now :)  
> I might add possible triggers and warnings later, depends on where this story goes. Do enjoy-

Come On Skinny Love

  
SH-

  
Five, a gun goes off, the sound vibrating in his teeth as he unconsciously flinches. Four, hand steady neither tremble in breath or mind. Three, Molly Hooper let’s out a gust of air and allows her arms to fall by her side. Two, she removes the ear plugs and sets them on the counter with the rifle. One, finally turning towards him her mouth thins, “Hello, Sherlock.” She tilts her head in his direction to indicate she’s paying attention but she won’t make eye contact. Interesting, something about this makes him feel unsettled.

  
Cocking his head to the side Sherlock lets out a low raspy reply, almost as if he hasn’t spoken in hours. “Molly.” She hums out a low note in the back of her throat, twisting her hair into a ponytail she purses her lips.

  
“Did you make a list then?” she asks him haughtily, almost as if Sherlock’s offended her in some way that makes him unaware of the social norm in a greeting. Her voice is off, he raises an eyebrow. Molly would never be so bold unless he has done something utterly unforgivable. Ducking his head to catch her eye Sherlock schools his face into that of an innocent child’s. When she finally meets his gaze he watches as something drapes over her like a blanket before seeping into her skin. Ah, disappointment.

  
“Pardon?” he inquires as an emotion tries to bubble up in his chest before he shoves it and buries it with the others.

  
“You heard me,” her voice is borderline tenor now, “think Sherlock, use your head. Did you make a list?” Before Sherlock can reply the gun range around them shifts, blurring together as colours begin to morph and spin, round and round the garden like a teddy bear. The connected walls begin to slowly crumble, becoming grey and barren.

  
When the room comes into focus they’re standing in Buckingham Palace, the walls washed white with gold trim, dark red carpet and drapes. The only odd thing about this scene is that the room is completely void of furniture save for a cushioned throne embedded with Italian and French dialect. Molly is standing to his left while a door is shut at his right. There’s only one person this place is dedicated to and as the door handle jiggles a few times before quickly opening, Sherlock is not as all surprised with who’s standing in the doorway.

  
Mycroft steps forward with his lips turned down in disapproval. Sherlock keeps his face completely blank but feels his eyebrow twitch in annoyance and he immediately scowls, Mycroft is reading him like a book.

  
His body language is sour bright oranges and sharp yellows as he walks into the room – more like waddles – of the main foyer. His arms folded behind his back the door falls closed with a gentle click.

  
“The list, Sherlock,” his brother murmurs, voice no longer blending with Molly’s. Mycroft shifts in place, almost restless, nervous.

  
Sherlock begins to speak quickly as his eyes dart around the barren room, fascinated with how his mind thinks that if he can reply fast enough the sting will hurt less. “Of course I made the bloody list, Mycroft! We made a deal, and there was no need to get Molly involved,” he barks out while never taking his eyes off of Mycroft; gesturing to the pathologist. “I would have given it to you just the same,” Sherlock finishes quietly while shoving a hand into his robe pocket then roughly grabbing the list before throwing it in his brother’s face. Mycroft’s eyes narrow as he straightens it out and reads it.

  
“I never doubted your inability to hand me a piece of paper, brother mine.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs in annoyance before glancing to his left to see if Molly’s still there, she’s gone.

  
He spits out his reply rapid fire, “Seven percent solution of cocaine, small bit of morphine – “

  
“—and a touch of Vicodin I know, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs, “I can read you know.”

  
Sherlock shoots his eyebrows up in mock surprise, “Oh, I didn’t realize your intelligence was that high!” He allows false excitement into his voice while his face schools into an empty expression. “I only thought you could retain basic motor functions!” He heard Mycroft exhale again in annoyance and his umbrella, which had not been there before, clacks against the tiled floor rhythmically.

  
“You’ve overdosed before Sherlock. Right now your eyes are bloodshot, erratic heartbeat, clammy hands and pale skin,” as he continues to speak his voice begins to grow weak with each word. “What would Mummy say?”

  
Sherlock can’t stop himself from flinching, body drawing back into itself. The sound of nails begins to echo as they clack against the floor. Sherlock freezes and listens as the sound gets closer, faster, labored breathing and harsh pants – a bark pierces the air. He whips his head every which way while his heart clenches uncomfortably in his chest. “Redbeard?” he asks in a breathy voice, but silence hangs around him thickly and there is no resounding yip in reply. Sherlock shakes his head side to side, trying to destroy the hope and thoughts in his head. _I’m fine._ He turns to glance at Mycroft only to find the spot in which he has resided in before is empty. Sherlock smirks and blinks once before he’s standing in front of 221b Baker Street. The front door has been left open and he takes the stairs two at a time, feeling a tug in his gut from upstairs. He slows down as he looks at their front door which is boarded shut, glancing up the last flight of stairs he bounds up to John’s room. Light from inside the room seeps out from underneath the crack of the door. He feels his heart swell with warmth, an ache settles in his bones and then he takes that final step closer and pushes John Watson’s bedroom door open.

  
John Watson’s room is filled with sunlit warmth, dark molten whiskey down your throat, and a scent like no other. All of these things make up John Watson’s bedroom even though it is completely devoid of furniture. The throne from Buckingham Palace sits alone in the middle of the room. It begins to creak faintly like someone’s settling in it.

  
“This is your heart we’re talking about here, Sherlock,” John’s voice tells him, soft and firm. “And you should never let it rule your head.” Sherlock swiftly walks over to the chair and stands in front of it, a window streams in bright light, illuminating the contours of John’s face. It makes his eyes seem brighter and wider, almost child-like in its glow.

  
“Sentiment?” Sherlock finally concludes and frowns when John purses his lips in deep thought, crossing his arms.

  
“No not this time. It’s been growing inside you for a while now, yeah? Since day one, it’s deeper than that, Sherlock.”

  
Sherlock feels his face scrunch up in confusion before cocking his head to the side and spitting out, “My heart has never ruled my head, John.” He realizes that he sounds defensive and so he scoffs at himself, forcing his voice to even out so he sounds blank to the average human mind he falters. John Watson is anything but average. Sherlock can see it in the man’s body language, John’s figured him out. He’s done so quite quickly as well. “I’m a high—“

  
“—functioning sociopath I know,” fake John rolls his eyes at him and Sherlock doesn’t know if he should be offended or not. John taps his own temple and points to Sherlock’s chest, right over his heart, “I know more about your mind—your heart than you think I do.”

  
Sherlock now scoffs at John, “Impossible, you’re simply a reflection of my subconscious therefore you know no more than I.” This fake John smiles at him sadly, no trace of pity in his eyes which mildly comforts Sherlock. “Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side,” he states stiffly and John bristles at this.

  
“Bloody hell then what do you think this—“, he takes a deep breath before seeming to back-peddle which only frustrates Sherlock further. “You’ve been told that multiple times as a child, good thing we’re the ones winning, eh?” Sarcasm. “There’s nothing to lose, Sherlock. How can sentiment be on the losing side when no one’s winning?” John clenches his hand as is begins to shake.

  
Sherlock stares at his fist for a moment before he deflates.

  
“I won’t be able to let you go,” he finds himself saying in a small voice. “In fact I’ll never let you go. I’ll carve my name into your ribs and crack you open to live inside you; I’ll pull you apart piece by piece then stitch you back together again,” he takes a deep breath.

  
“Who says I want you to let me go?” John counters with a shy smile on his face. Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond to this but he feels his ears beginning to burn. “Anyways Sherlock its fine, it’s all fine.” John throws him a warm grin and he has a hard time not believing him.

 

His robe pocket chirps and vibrates twice against his thigh and he growls in annoyance. He had come so close to solving it and someone wants him now? Just yesterday he had been pushed out of Scotland Yard by Lestrade who had no new cases so who could it be? Sherlock lifts his phone to his face with one hand steepled under his chin.

  
_4:32 pm. Going shopping, do we need milk?_

  
He quirks his lips into a smirk and looks towards the kitchen where the milk container sits sadly on the counter top, lying sideways and dribbling milk and chemicals on the smooth surface. At least John would be pleased to know he kept the worst of his experiment contained in the bath this time, well most of it anyways.

  
_4:35 pm. Yes precisely two gallons. –SH_

  
He thinks for a moment before adding in parenthesis—  
_(Some bleach and white wine while you’re out)._

  
John’s response comes within seconds.

  
_4:36 pm. White wine?_

  
_4:36 pm. Yes, we’re expecting Mycroft sometime today. –SH_

  
He doesn’t receive a reply and he can understand why, anyone would be annoyed if Mycroft stopped for a visit. Sitting up he looks at the mantle and sends a grin to his skull before it immediately drops off his face. “Don’t suppose you know how to make tea, do you?” the skull sits quietly in reply. “Didn’t think so.” He glares at his friend as if offended and scoffs, throwing himself onto the couch and pulling his blue robe about himself as he shoves his face into the cushion.

  
A minute, two minutes, fifteen, an hour goes by and Sherlock springs up from his crevice in the couch, his hair and robe whirling about before settling back in place.

  
Sherlock breathes in the scent of John. Lazily prodding around the lounge he takes note of all of John’s belongings and compares them to the amount of his own around him. He takes a deep breath in and waits to exhale, keeping the smell of his doctor in his lungs for as long as possible until they ache.

  
Opening his eyes Sherlock takes another look around and places his hands on his hips, lately he’s been thinking about the prospect of John leaving Baker Street one day.

  
He could live with that he guesses, the only things of John’s in the lounge are a couple of tediously dull and normal books, John’s favorite tea mug, his laptop, and a wool jumper. The rest is Sherlock’s own clutter, chaos tiny minds most people wouldn’t understand. Except John. He understands. John leaving would be… a bit not good. Not at all. Sherlock ponders this notion until he becomes frustrated with himself, huffing he flops back onto the couch and closes his eyes.

 

When John Watson walks into their flat, grocery bags in hand, it finally clicks. John leaving would be a bit more than not good. It would be unbearable. Like a switch being flipped an explosion of colour impacts Sherlock from all angles. He saw molten sunshine. Defined jaw yellow sun soaked lemon flavoured canvas, sand ridden flesh and blue ocean shore-grey storm cloud eyes. He saw life flash in front of him and watches as it sets down the container of bleach on the counter, pulling out a new carton of milk and sighing as it realized what happened to the old one.

  
“Sherlock,” it said and he blinks until it took John’s form, life turned into John. His purpose in life, living living living—

  
The reason for living.

  
_Oh._

  
“Sherlock!” He snaps his attention to the man in front of him, zeroing in on the scuff mark on John’s left shoe which tells him that he had tripped coming up the stairs and the tight lines around his mouth and eyes—

  
A young boy? No, girl had given him a hard time at the clinic today.

  
“How’s the ankle?” he asks instead of acknowledging John having had called his name before.

  
John’s mouth gapes open before it clicks shut, he sets his jaw in affectionate annoyance and shakes his head. “Fine, Sherlock it’s fine.”

  
He makes a vague humming sound in the back of his throat to show John he’s listening as he closes his eyes.

  
Two cupboards open one right after another as John puts the groceries away, a slight limp in his step as he bustles about. Must have forgotten to take his inflammatory medicine, he usually needs it when the months are cold and rainy.

  
“—could clean up once in a while I wouldn’t bloody yell at you,” oh John has been talking to him, he sighs and sits up as his phone pings.

  
“Case?” John looks up from setting up dinner. Sherlock nods his head and thumbs the keypad on his phone, “It’s from Lestrade. Mycroft will have to wait.” He feel himself grin in excitement. “Apparently two bodies have been discovered in the same area."

  
“Locked door?” John questions.

  
Sherlock shakes his head. “No door at all,” he almost purrs and can see John’s grin out of the corner of his eye.  
Hoping John doesn’t leave will only kill him in the end.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment your opinions and thoughts!  
> If there is a mistake please let me know and I'll correct it.  
> Thanks loves! Until next time.


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